FRISCO VISITS EAGLE
Eagle did not thoroughly awaken until the sun began to set, for it was
not until dark that its inhabitants, largely transient, cared to
venture forth. Then it was that the town seethed, boldly, openly,
restrained by nothing save the might of the individual.
Prosperity had blessed the town, for there had been an abrupt and
pleasing change in local conditions since the disagreement between the
two ranches north of the town had assumed warlike aspect. Men who
heretofore had no standing with the proprietors of the town's places
of amusement and who had seldom been able to pay for as much liquor as
they were capable of drinking, now swaggered importantly where they
pleased, and found welcome where formerly it had been denied them; for
their hands were thrust deep into pockets from which came the cheerful
and open-sesame clinking of gold. Even Big Sandy, who had earned his
food by sweeping out the saloons and doing odd jobs about them, and
who was popularly believed to be too lazy to earn a better living by
real work, now drank his fill and failed to recognize a broom when he
saw it. While the inhabitants could not "get in" on the big plums
which they were certain were being shaken down on the range, they
could and did take care of the windfalls, and thrived well. They would
stay in town until their money was gone and then disappear for a week,
and return to spend recklessly. It is not out of place to state, in
passing, that numerous small herds bearing strange brands frequently
passed around the town at a speed greater than that common to drives,
and left clouds of dust on the southeastern horizon.
The town debated the probable whereabouts of ten men who had suddenly
disappeared in a body, along with Antonio of the H2. It was obvious
what they were doing and the conjectures were limited as to their
whereabouts and success. For a while after they had left one or two
had ridden in occasionally to buy flour and other necessities, and at
that time they had caused no particular thought. But now even these
visits had ceased. It was common belief that Quinn knew all about
them, but Quinn for good reasons was not urged to talk about the
matter. Big Sandy acted as though he knew, which increased his
importance for a time, and discredited him thereafter.
While the citizens had been able to rustle as they pleased they had
given but little thought to the ten men, being too busy to trail. But
now that the H2 punchers rode range with rifles across their arms
rustling had become very risky and had fallen off. Then it was that
the idlers renewed their conjectures about Shaw and his men and
thrashed that matter over and over again. The majority being, as we
have said, transients, knew nothing about Thunder Mesa, and those who
did know of it were silent, for Shaw and some of his companions knew
only one way to close a man's mouth, and were very capable.
So it happened that about noon of the day Curley lost his life six men
met in the shadow cast by the front of the "Rawhide" a hundred yards
from Quinn's, and exercised squatter sovereignty on the bench just
outside the door, while inside the saloon Big Sandy and Nevada played
cards close to the bar and talked in low tones. When they were aware
of the presence of those on the bench they played silently and
listened. The six men outside made up one of the groups of the town's
society, having ridden in together and stuck together ever since they
had arrived, which was wise.
Big Sandy and Nevada made a team more feared than any other
combination. The former, while fair with weapons, was endowed with
prodigious strength; by some it was hailed as being greater than that
of Pete Wilson, the squat giant of the Bar-20, whose strength was
proverbial, as it had good right to be. Nevada was the opposite type,
slender, short, wiry, and soft-spoken, but the quickest man in town on
the draw and of uncertain temper.
Chet Bates, on the bench, replied to a companion and gave vent to his
soft, Southern laugh. "Yuh still wondering 'bout thet man Shaw, an'
th' othas?"
"Nothing else to do, is there?" retorted Dal Gilbert. "We can't run no
more cattle, can we?"
"I reckon we can't."
"They're running a big game an' I want to get in it," remarked John
Elder. "Frisco was allus friendly. We've got to go trailing for 'em."
"Yes; an' get shot," interposed George Lewis. "They're ten to our six.
An' that ain't all of our troubles, neither. We'll find ourselves in a
big fight some day, an' right here. Them ranches will wake up, patch
up their troubles, an' come down here. You remember what Quinn said
about th' time Peters led a lot of mad punchers agin Trendley an' his
crowd, don't you? In a day he can raise men enough to wipe this town
off th' map."
"Yuh forget, suh, that they are fighting foh principles, an' men who
fight foh principles don't call truces," said Chet Bates.
"You've said that till it's old," laughed Sam Austin.
"_I_ say we've got to keep our eyes open," warned Lewis.
"Th' devil with that!" broke in Con Irwin. "What _I_ want to know is
how we're going to get some of th' easy money Shaw's getting."
"We'll have to wait for one of his men to come to town an' trail him
back," replied Gilbert.
"What do you say that we try to run one more good herd an' then scout
for them, or their trails?" asked Irwin.
"Heah comes somebody," remarked Chet, listening.
The sound of galloping grew rapidly louder and soon they saw Frisco
turn into the street and ride towards them. As they saw him a quiet
voice was heard behind them and looking up, they saw Nevada smiling at
them. "Get him drunk an' keep him away from Quinn's," he counselled.
They exchanged looks and then Elder stepped out into the street and
held up his hand. "Hullo, Frisco!" he cried.
"Where yuh been keeping yuhself foh so long?" asked Chet, affably.
"Holed up som'ers?"
"Hullo, fellers," grinned Frisco, drawing rein.
"Everybody have a drink on me," laughed Chet. "Ah'm pow'ful thirsty."
Frisco was escorted inside to the bar, where Chet did the honors, and
where such a spirit of hospitality and joviality surrounded him that
he forgot how many drinks he had taken. He dug up a handful of gold
and silver and spread it out on the bar and waved at the bartender.
"Bes' you got--ver' bes'," he grinned. "Me an' my fren's want th' ver'
bes'; don't we, fellers? I got money--helluva lot of money--an' thersh
more where it came from, ain't that so, boys?"
When the noise had subsided he turned around and levelled an unsteady
finger at the bartender. "I never go--back onsh fren', never. An'
we're all frensh--ain't we, fellers? Tha's right. I got s'more
frensh--good fellesh, an' lots of money cached in sand."
"Ah'll bet yuh have!" cried Chet.
"You allus could find pay-dirt," marvelled Nevada, glancing warningly
around him. "Yo're a fine prospector, all right."
Frisco stared for a moment and then laughed loudly and leaned against
the bar for support. "Proshpector! Proshpector! W'y, we earned tha's
money--run a helluva lot of risks. Mebby tha's Bar-20 outfit'll jump
us an' make us fight 'em. No; they can't jump us--they can't get up at
us!"
"On a mesa, shore!" whispered Elder to Lewis.
"Wha's you shay?"
"Said they couldn't lick you."
"Who couldn't--lick us?"
"Th' Bar-20," explained Elder.
Frisco rubbed his head and drew himself up, suspicion percolating
through his muddled brain. "Never shaid nozzing 'bout no Bar-Twensh!"
he asserted, angrily. "Nozzing 'tall. I'm going out of here--don't
like you! Gotta get some flour an' ozzer stuff. Never shaid nozzing
'bout--" he muttered, staggering out.
Nevada turned to Elder. "You go with him an' quiet his suspicions.
Keep him away from Quinn, for that coyote'll hold him till he gets
sober if you don't. This is the chance we've been wanting. Don't try
to pump him--his trail will be all we need."
"Wonder what mesa they're on?" asked Lewis.
"Don't know, an' don't care," Nevada replied. "We'll find out quick
enough. There's eight of us an' we can put up a stiff argument if they
won't take us in. You know they ain't going to welcome us, don't
you?"
"Hey, go out th' back way," growled Big Sandy, interposing his huge
bulk between Bates and the door. "An' don't let Frisco see you near a
cayuse, neither," he added.
Nevada walked quickly over to his friend and said a few hurried words
in a low voice and Big Sandy nodded. "Shore, Nevada; he might try
that, but I'll watch him. If he tries to sneak I'll let you know
hasty. We're in this to stay," and he followed the others to the door.
Nevada turned and faced the bartender. "Mike, you keep quiet about
what you saw an' heard to-day; understand? If you don't, me an' you
won't fit in this town at th' same time."
Mike grinned. "I forgot how to talk after one exciting day up in
Cheyenne, an' I ain't been drunk since, neither."
"Yo're a wise man," replied the other, stepping out by the back door
and hastening up the street where he could keep watch over Quinn's
saloon. It was an hour before he caught sight of Frisco, and he was
riding west, singing at the top of his lungs. Then Quinn slipped into
his corral and threw a saddle on a horse.
"Drop it!" said a quiet voice behind him and he turned to see Nevada
watching him.
"What do you mean?" demanded Quinn, ominously.
"Let loose of that cayuse an' go back inside," was the reply.
"You get th' h--l out of here an' mind yore own--" Quinn leaped aside
and jerked at his Colt; but was too late, and he fell, badly wounded.
Nevada sprang forward and disarmed him and then, mounting, galloped
off to join his friends.